There I was, sittin’ quiet atop an old water tower outside Broken Latch Junction, when I caught the moon starin’ at me sideways. Not like she was judging — more like she knew somethin’ and was wonderin’ if I did too.
Now, I’ve seen a lot of things roll down the tracks — ghost trains, two-headed dogs, even a man who claimed he could sneeze lottery numbers — but nothin’ stirs my guts like that odd ol’ moon. One night she’s a dinner plate full of promises, next she’s a sickle cuttin’ through dreams.
I reckon the moon’s got moods. And today? She’s in one of her mystery moods.
Blaze says the moon’s a mirror. Shows you what you won’t look at in daylight. I told him that’s mighty poetic for someone who once tried to marry a raccoon. Jasper didn’t say nothin’, just held up a piece of broken mirror he’s been carryin’ for weeks. Coincidence? Not likely. The trashfire crackled just then, like it agreed.
I asked the cans what the moon was trying to say.
The silver one said: “She remembers things you forgot.”
The black one whispered: “She don’t cast light — she borrows it.”
And the blue one just hummed like a lullaby from someone long gone.
So maybe that’s what the moon’s for — memory, mystery, and makin’ peace with all the things that don’t make sense. Maybe she ain’t tryin’ to be understood. Maybe she just wants to be watched and wondered at.
If you’re up tonight, tilt your chin toward the sky and nod at her. Not like you know her — just like you respect her.
Because friend, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from ridin’ rails and readin’ stars, it’s this:
The moon don’t need permission to shine strange.
Catch ya in the reflection off a puddle,
— Hobo Harry, Moon-Gazer, Can-Whisperer, and Devotee of the Odd Light
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